Dealing in Futures Part 30

"Hold it." I had him. "I'll buy another round if you can talk your way out of this one. The Earth is moving all the time, spinning around, going around the Sun; the Sun'

s moving through s.p.a.ce. How the h.e.l.l do you aim this time machine?"

He bleared at me. "Don't they teach you anything about relativity? Look, if you get up from the bar, go to the john, and come back in a couple of minutes-the bar's moved thousands of miles. But it's still here. You're on the same track, that's all."

"But I'm talking about time and you're talking about s.p.a.ce!"

"There's a difference?" He drained his gla.s.s and slid it toward me with one finger.

I decided I'd stay long enough to find out what his con was. Maybe do a one-pager for a crime magazine. I ordered him another double. "You folks from the future can sure hold your liquor.

"Couple of centuries of medicine," he said. "I'm ninety-two years old." He looked about seventy.

Looked like I was going to have to push him for the gaff. "Seems to me you could be a millionaire. Knowing where to invest . . ."

"It's not that easy. I tried. I should have left well enough alone." His drink came and he stuck his fingertip in it; flicked a drop away. "I'm sort of a Moslem," he said.

"Not supposed to drink a drop of liquor.

"People try it all the time; there's no law against it. But put yourself in this position: you're going to deliberately strand yourself two hundred years in the past.

What do you do for capital? Buy old money from collectors?"

"You could take gold and diamonds."

"Sure. But if you can afford that-and time travel isn't cheap either-why not invest it in your own present? Remember, once you materialize, you aren't in your own past anymore. You can never tell what might have changed. People do try it, though. Usually they take gadgets."

"Does it work?"

"Who knows? They can't come back to tell about it."

"Couldn't they build their own time machine, go back to the future?"

"Aren't you hearing me? There's no such thing as the future. Even if you could travel forward, there's no way you could find the right one."

Somebody came into the bar; I waited until the door eased shut, muting the traffic noise. "So what happened to you? You made some bad investments?"

"In spades. Seemed like a sure thing.

"Let me explain. Where I come from, almost n.o.body lives on Earth, just caretakers and the time travel people. It's like a big park, a big museum. Most of us live in orbital settlements, some on other planets.

"I really was a history professor, specializing in the history of technology. I saved up my money to go back and see the first flight to the Moon."

"That was in '70?"

"No, '69. It was during the launch when the accident happened. n.o.body noticed me materializing; I didn't even notice until I tried to walk through someone afterward.

"Fortunately, that was a time when everybody dressed as they d.a.m.n well pleased, so my clothes didn't look especially outrageous. I b.u.mmed my way down to Homestead and picked up some work sorting tomatoes, that kind of thing. Saved up enough to get fake IDs made up, eventually went back to school and wound up teaching again. Married along the way."

"The one who tried to put you in the peanut jar."

"That's right. Here's what happened. If there was one sure thing to invest in, it was s.p.a.ce. My wife didn't agree, but there was no way I could tell her why I was so sure.

"I went ahead and invested heavily in s.p.a.ce industries-really heavily, buying on margin, wheeling, dealing-but my wife thought it was all going into a conservative portfolio of munic.i.p.als. I even snitched some stationery from our accountant and wrote up annual reports to show her."

"I think I see what's coming." Not a bad story.

"Yeah. The Soviet-American Orbital Nonproliferation Treaty, the G.o.dd.a.m.ned Proxmire Bill."

"Well, killer satellites ..."

"That's the kicker. That's really the kicker. In my future's past, it was the killer satellites that ended the possibility of nuclear war forever! They finally sc.r.a.pped the missiles and settled down to shouting across tables."

"Well, you can't think we're in any danger of nuclear war now. Not realistically."

"Yeah. I liked our way better. Anyway, the bottom dropped out. I had to tell my wife that we were broke and in debt; I had to tell her everything. I thought I knew her. I thought she would believe. The rest is pretty obvious."

"Sponge boats."

"Right." He took a long drink and stared moodily into the cloudy mirror behind the bar.

"That's it?" No scam?

"That's it. Write it up. You'll never sell it."

I checked my watch. Could just make the 1:35 to Atlanta, get in a half day at the typewriter. "Well, I gotta run. Thanks for the story, Bill."

I stood up and put my hand on his shoulder. "Take it easy on the sauce, okay?

You're no spring chicken anymore." "Sure." He never looked at me.

On the way to the subway terminal it occurred to me that I shouldn't try to sell the thing as a human-interest feature. Just write it up as fiction and I could hawk it to Planet Stories or one of those rags.

The ticket machine gave me an argument about changing a hundred-ruble note and I had to go find a conductor. Then there were repairs going on and it took us twenty minutes to get to Atlanta; I had to sprint to make my Seattle connection.

s.p.a.ce settlements. Time travel. n.o.body would swallow that kind of bull, not in 1924.

After that story appeared in Omni I got some inevitable mail. Is the year a misprint? No. Can you explain what it means? I could, but won't. Life is too short.

Maybe fifteen years of this business has eroded my patience: worn down the ability to suffer fools gladly. Though actually, the people who write letters are rarely fools-at least they like to read and write, and sometimes feel and think. The truly insufferable ones are the ones you meet under the vitreous gaze of the television camera: interviewers.

Not all are bad. The first person who interviewed me on television was the late Charles Haslam (founder of the huge Haslam's book emporium in St. Petersburg, Florida), who did a weekly local show called Book Beat. His questions revealed that he had read the book carefully-had read many books carefully-and had invested a lot of time and effort in structuring the show.

That was not the last good interview I've had, but I could probably count the good ones on the fingers of one hand. Generally the best you can expect is that someone on the staff has read the promotional material and perhaps scanned the book, so as to cobble together a few questions that the "personality" will see for the first time when you both sit down in front of the prompter. Sometimes the questions come from a cursory glance at the flap copy. Often the interviewer doesn't even know the name of the book.

The inevitable first question is, what is this book about? That's easy to answer if the book's about pickling geraniums or s.h.i.+ning your cat. It's not that easy with a novel; the honest answer-"It's about whatever went through my head during the two and a half years I sweated over it"-isn't exactly what they're looking for. So you come prepared with a plot synopsis and theme statement that you hope will not sound too dumb or pretentious and won't give away the ending. (When John Cheever was asked this question he gave the deadpan perfect answer: "Love and death.") It's at this point that the worst, or least prepared, interviewers discover that they have a science fiction writer, as opposed to a real writer, on their hands. So the next question is liable to be about UFOs or life on Mars, and the interview goes downhill from there.

This next story came from one such experience. Perhaps fortunately, the interviewer didn't quite get my name right, and for some minutes she proceeded not to improve on that auspicious beginning, while I tried not to squirm visibly.

Afterward I went down to the studio's Green Room to watch an instant replay of my electronic canonization.

It was even worse watching it from the consumer's side of the tube. While reliving my still-fresh agonies, though, I came to a sudden realization: Hey! Here I am watching that guy on television and I know exactly what's going through his mind!

Not a profound epiphany, I suppose, but it got me to thinking, and this was the result.

THE PILOT.

The set is out of adjustment: a green streak slashes diagonally through the viewing cube, impales the smiling host.

She tries to adjust it by softly licking a molar, remembers, curses economically, turns a k.n.o.b until the streak disappears, another k.n.o.b to sharpen the image. Host smiling goodbye to someone. Feel of cold metal sticks to her thumb and finger until she rubs it away on her thigh, disgusted, nose wrinkling. How many filthy traveling salesmen and conventioneers and hotel maids have touched these k.n.o.bs since they were last sterilized? Have they ever been sterilized?

"Our next guest is a woman with a marvelously rare occupation." Occupation! He smiles offcube and the picture scale diminishes to include her as well, not smiling, trying not to fidget on the filthy leather chair. "She is a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p pilot"-I am a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p-"but no ordinary rocket jock. She pilots a s...o...b..at between the Earth and the outer solar system-the asteroids, even as far as Saturn. Her name is Lydia Meinenger and she's a fellow New Yorker." New Yorker. "Lydia, would you tell us something about s...o...b..ats: how they-"

"In the first place," she interrupts, "they aren't slow. They go much faster than anything you use in the Earth-Moon system. The name is a hangover from the old robot tugs that crawled along on Hohmann transfer orbits, to minimize fuel use. A Hohmann tug took six years to get to Saturn; I can make it in thirteen months. Nine months, with a Jupiter flyby. But I can't do that with pa.s.sengers.

"Because of the radiation?"

"That's right." Warm like summer suns.h.i.+ne. "They can't wrap everyone up in lead, the way I am."

"That's probably the most fascinating aspect of your job, Lydia. The way you're wired up to the s.h.i.+p, you're actually part of it." I am the s.h.i.+p, you actual fool.

"'Wired up' is a little extreme. They don't use surgical implants anymore; just induction plates pasted over various organs. There are a few small wires a.s.sociated with the somatic feedback system"-O slow ecstasy-"but they enter through natural body openings and you hardly feel them once they're in place."

"This feedback thing, this is how you control the s.h.i.+p?"

"That's right. There's an initial calibration that, well, as long as I feel good"- Good!-"then every system in the s.h.i.+p is working properly. If any system varies from its expected performance, I feel it as an illness or slight pain. The nature and intensity of the wrongness tells me which system is involved and gives me an idea as to the severity of the malfunction. For instance, a hydrogen ullage problem, where the fuel flow is momentarily uneven, I feel as a hot spasm of"-screen goes white, low chime-"tum."

Host smirking behind filthy hand. "Afraid the censor won't let that slip by, Lydia."

They live in s.h.i.+t so can't talk about it? Chuckles. "It doesn't seem very precise."

"The important thing is sensitivity, not precision. Instantly knowing which system is hurting. Then I call up the appropriate system parameters and compare them to the ideal mission profile. I can usually fix the trouble with the help of the s.h.i.+p's diagnostic library. If not, I call Company Control on the Moon."

"So your main job is troubleshooting."

"Yes." Like you troubleshoot your body? Filthy fool couldn't find your liver with both hands. "I make decisions regarding the maintenance of the s.h.i.+p."

"It doesn't sound very exciting...."

"It is."

Looking at her expectantly: she doesn't continue. "You must have quite a technical background." For a woman, say it fool.

"No. I majored in cla.s.sical Latin and Greek. The technical part is easy. Any reasonably intelligent woman could do it."

"I, uh, see . . . you-"

"There are no male s...o...b..at pilots. I don't suppose your censor wants me to discuss that. You'll just have to go ask a twelve-year-old." She flashes him a bright metal smile. "Much nicer than-" Chime.

Weak try at an urbane chuckle. "There's an interesting side benefit to your job. I'll bet viewers would be surprised to know how old you are."

She lets him wait just long enough; as he opens his mouth to save himself: "Sixty- five."

"Now, isn't that marvelous? You could pa.s.s for twenty."

"As could anybody who didn't have to contend with gravity and sun and wind and this"-chime-"that pa.s.ses for your food and drink and air. I've spent most of my life immersed in oxygenated fluorocarbon, weightless, fed a perfect diet, exercised by machines."

"But your job is dangerous."

"Not very. Perhaps one in thirty is lost."

"More dangerous than holovision." His image turns a little fuzzy; she touches the filthy k.n.o.b to sharpen him. "The atomic drive itself must be hazardous." Carries her contaminated hand into the bathroom, listening. "Not to mention meteors and-"

Fool.

"No, actual catastrophes are very rare." She washes the offended fingers carefully.

"The dangerous time is turnaround, when the s.h.i.+p is going with maximum velocity.

It '.

s supposed to flip and slow down for the last half of the journey." Leaves the soap on warm clean fingers. "Sometimes they don't flip, though; just keep going, faster and faster. Too fast for the Company's rescue s.h.i.+p."

"How terrible." Standing in front of the set, dry hand tugs elastic, urgent. Clothes!

"They just keep going ..."

"Forever." Ecstasy, 0! "The pilot may live for centuries." "Well ... if ever a cliche was true . . . that does sound like a fate worse than death." Fool.

She nods soberly. "Indeed it does." Fool, fool, O d.a.m.n, doesn't last this way. She sinks back onto the bed and starts to cry. Fry them dead.

He puts a filthy finger to his lips. "Well. Are you, um, going to be on Earth long?"

"Only another two days." Hurting herself, she stops, wipes eyes, soap sting brings new tears. "I like being back in New York, but the gravity is tiring. The air makes me cough. I look forward to going out again." Last time, fry the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

"Saturn this time?"

"No, for a change I'm going to the inner system. Taking five hundred colonists to the new Venus settlement." Taking them to burn.

"Is that more dangerous? I mean, I don't know much about s.p.a.ce, but isn't there a danger that you could fall into the Sun?"